Cure for a Hangover
by Rainie Skyes
Summary: A hangover can be caused by many things. Both Sherlock and John have one this morning. Both for different reasons. But Sherlock decides he might have hit on a way to get rid of it. Well, his anyway. John's...maybe not so much. No Johnlock, just friendship. Rated T for mild language and topic.


_**~ Cure for a Hangover ~**_

It dawned a lovely sunshiny London morning, or as sunshiny as London was capable of, but only one of the current occupants of 221B Baker Street was awake to see it, though the hopeful quality of it was certainly not reflected in his mood. Sherlock Holmes was decidedly not feeling 'sunshiny'. What he was feeling was exhausted, grumpy, twitchy, and bored to tears, with a vague feeling of unease over all. And this was before having set a foot out of the bed. He was completely uninterested in the bother of getting out of the bed and simultaneously incapable of lying in another moment. The dull ennui of case ending had set in.

Sherlock lay in the bed, listening to the quiet of the flat around him. He knew John was home but likely still asleep. Not that Sherlock cared a fig where John was or what he was doing. He was still irritated with his flatmate about the previous evening. They had completely wrapped up the case they had been working on for over a week, and when they had finally gotten back to Baker Street, Sherlock had envisioned a quiet evening in for the both of them, but this was not to be. He had no sooner hung up his coat and was thinking that he might possibly be able to eat some toast, if he could get John to make some, when he noticed that John was putting his jacket back on. To go out. With Mike Stamford. To some ridiculous 'stag night' that Mike was hosting for a mutual friend at some pub which happened to be right around the corner from Baker Street.

These plans had come as a surprise to Sherlock as John hadn't mentioned anything about them prior to this, and when questioned, John claimed it was because he wasn't sure if the case would be wrapped up in time for him to attend the event. At that point, John _had_ asked him if he wanted to come, but Sherlock had felt it was more of an _afterthought _on John's part, and in any event he would have declined anyway. Why would he want to spend the evening with a pub filled with drunken idiots? All Sherlock had really wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers up over his head. After some toast of course. But John had bolted out the door, leaving Sherlock all alone with nothing to do but creep off to bed. And definitely without toast.

His contemplation on the lack of toast brought to his mind the annoying commotion of John's return to Baker Street last night. Late last night. Very late and not in the least quietly. Nor was the good doctor even remotely sober. Much to the contrary, based on the repeated stumbling on the stairs and the slurred singing. No clearly John had been hugely intoxicated. And to Sherlock's further dismay, not alone. It was well that Mrs. Hudson was still absent, as she would have no doubt been appalled by the variety of limericks emerging in a constant stream from the mouth of John's companion. Though perhaps on second thought, Sherlock mused to himself, she might have joined in and shared a few of her own favourites. Hidden depths, their Mrs. Hudson. He chuckled a bit at this thought as he began to vaguely wonder when she would be back from visiting her sister. But Sherlock's amusement was momentary, as he was forcefully brought back to the issue of John's late night companion by a terrifyingly loud snore which came from the lounge. Sherlock was quite sure it had been loud enough to bend the bedroom door inward for a moment. It was an outrage, he thought. What if he was trying to sleep in here?

Suddenly the idea of a little pay back had Sherlock up and pulling on the pyjama bottoms he had pushed under the other pillow when retiring last night, the grey T shirt he found rolled into a ball near the end of the bed and his favourite blue dressing gown which was hanging neatly on the hook behind the door.

Grinning in anticipation of the pay back he was going to serve on John, which he was quite sure would go a long way toward making himself feel better, Sherlock opened the bedroom door and on bare feet, soundlessly stole down the hallway to the kitchen. He ran water into the kettle and put it on to boil. Then he slipped like a phantom into the lounge to retrieve his violin, not sparing a glance at the sleeping form lying sprawled out on the sofa as he passed by it on the way in and on the way out. Sherlock had just cleared the doorway from the lounge onto the landing, when another loud snore followed on his heels.

Sherlock stopped on the landing and considered the likelihood that John's bedroom door could possibly be closed, as for his purposes he desired it to be open. He could mount the stairs to the turning and just look, but that would take more effort and really, he was quite sure he had been sparing more than enough of that already. He decided that he would just focus his senses on a few key elements and that should tell him everything he needed to know anyway. Sherlock concentrated and let the data come to him. The air flow from the stairs had a slight movement to it, which was accompanied by a very slight whistling sound, and an exceedingly faint smell of day old aftershave mixed with the remnants of sour ale that had recently soaked into a cotton material which in turn had been washed, sometime within the last week, with lavender scented laundry soap. Sherlock's grin was actually quite evil looking as he thought to himself, 'Ah. Good. John's door is open. Perfect.'

Assuming his chosen spot on the landing just between the door into the kitchen and the one into the lounge, Sherlock took a moment to savour the anticipation of what was to come, then raised the violin into position and began. The noise was horrible, discordant and loud as he dragged the bow across the strings in the most hideous manner. Within seconds of his estimated reaction time, he achieved the desired effect.

A quick glance to his left allowed him to watch Mike Stamford's body shoot upright on the sofa, then fold back over onto itself in a semi-crouched defensive posture, as Mike dragged the blanket and pillow over his head in an attempt to shut out the noise, moaning all the while as if in great pain. Delightful, Sherlock thought, then turned his attention to the right to take in the sight of John running down the stairs while trying to cover his eyes and his ears simultaneously with his hands, and it was clear he was currently wishing he possessed four hands instead of the normally allowed two.

"Sherlock! Stop it! What are you doing?!"

It was meant to have been yelled, Sherlock could tell, but it came out as little more than a whisper, and even then John had to stop and hold his delicate head in his hands. Had Sherlock not been able to clearly read what John's lips were saying, he certainly wouldn't have understood what he said, as he naturally wouldn't have been able to hear him. Not at a whisper and over the discordant sounds coming from his normally well-tuned violin. When his feet hit the bottom step, John flopped down onto it and wrapped his arms protectively around his aching head.

"Ah, John. You're awake." Sherlock smiled winningly at John as he removed the bow from the strings and aside from the constant flow of mournful sounds issuing from the direction of the sofa, a blissful silence descended on the flat. He allowed it to be appreciated for a moment before using the bow to point over his shoulder into the kitchen. "The kettle's just boiled. A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you."

John slowly pulled his arms away from his head and squinted balefully at Sherlock, who was standing there looking chipper, well rested, and not the slightest bit innocent. "I have killed before, Sherlock. I can kill again."

"Oh, please. Spare me. If you are that set against preparing me a simple cup of tea, you could just say so. Honestly. There is no call become threatening."

Sherlock pulled a face that, had John not known his friend so well, might have looked sincerely offended. But John wasn't taken in by the innocent façade as he watched his friend fiddle around with the bow in his hand, studying it as if it held some great mystery.

"Why are you standing out on the landing of all places, at this ungodly hour of the morning, playing that racket?"

Sherlock paused in his intent study of the bow in his hand, and used it to point again, this time toward Mike, still huddled in a puddle of blankets on the sofa, though the moans had diminished by this time. "Well. If you must know, Mike is – well he _was_ asleep on the sofa. I thought it would be rude to play in the lounge. I might have disturbed his sleep. He is a guest after all. By the way, you really should at least make him a cup of tea. It would appear that the poor man has had a bit of a shock."

John decided not to take that bait, but to continue in his pursuit of what the hell Sherlock was about, and why he was playing his violin, if that caterwauling could even be called _playing_, in the first place.

"Oh. Right. And you thought playing right outside the doorway would be better how?" When Sherlock didn't answer except to tilt his head as if he didn't understand the question, John just sighed deeply. "What was that you were playing anyway? Was that even remotely music?"

Once again, Sherlock's face reflected great offense, though John did detect a slight twinkle of amusement playing around his mouth and in his eyes.

"Really, John. Clearly you are incapable of appreciating the subtlety of it. But if you insist on knowing I will tell you. Actually, I was composing a new piece just for you. It is entitled: _Cure for a Hangover_."


End file.
